


Her Heart, Her Soul, Her Everything

by frostryn



Series: The People's Tomb Fic Jam Prompts [2]
Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Content Warning: Ianthe Tridentarius, Gen, Missing Scene, The People's Tomb Fic Jam: Dream, harrow gideon and camilla are mostly just mentioned, sad girls having a very bad time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26624053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostryn/pseuds/frostryn
Summary: Long before they were born, Coronabeth and Ianthe's lives were planned out elaborately for them by their tutors and their parents. The path set out before them was exuberant and paved with gold. Twin necromancers, they would be, socialites who could entertain crowds using their magic during interhousal parties. That was the dream with which they had been conceived.
Relationships: Coronabeth Tridentarius & Ianthe Tridentarius
Series: The People's Tomb Fic Jam Prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939300
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Her Heart, Her Soul, Her Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little 3rd house piece for The People's Tomb discord Fandom Jam event week two: Dream. I'm not sure how well it came together but I hope I don't disappoint all you Ianthe stans in the server.

The Third house, overripe with extravagance and beauty, was overjoyed when the Queen of Ida brought her twin princesses into the world. Long before they were born, their lives were planned out elaborately for them by their tutors and their parents. The path set out before them was exuberant and paved with gold. Twin necromancers, they would be, socialites who could entertain crowds using their magic during interhousal parties. They were monozygotic twins and therefore would be identical, a matched set, the perfect pair. It would be difficult for the younger twin to defer to the older for heirdom, but the two would be best friends and therefore accept their birthright with amicable humility. That was the dream with which they had been conceived.  
  
Coronabeth was born first and therefore became the Crown Princess of Ida, and she was gorgeous. Already, she had a head of golden curls and that adorable smile which grew bewitching once she crossed the threshold into adulthood. Corona was everything her parents had imagined and more. Her sister Ianthe was not; Her source of oxygen had been removed in the womb and thus she came into the world pallid, limp, and terribly gaunt. The doctors assured the Queen and King that their younger daughter would improve with time and Tridentarius sisters would be identical as promised.  
  


The girls spent hardly a moment apart from birth onwards, dressed in matching jewel colors and educated by the finest tutors available at the kingdom’s disposal. As they grew, it became evident that Ianthe Tridentarius was just like her sister, only faded, like a sun-damaged portrait of Coronabeth. Corona had a head of buoyant, golden curls; Ianthe’s hair was pale and limp, the washed out color of unripe corn. She was gangly and awful, a flower grown without adequate water or sunlight. She was her sister’s shadow. They performed that way in social situations even as toddlers: Ianthe deferred to her more charismatic twin, lurking behind her for safety. Their parents had expected that shyness to disappear as undesirable phases of youth often did, but as Corona grew personable, vibrant, and ambitious, her sister grew bitter, apathetic, and unpleasant.  
  
At age four, it became evident that Ianthe was a born necromancer, a prodigious adept, everything her parents had dreamed of but in the wrong packaging. She was beautiful in her own right but was never appreciated for it because her every moment was spent at her better sister’s side. She was the lesser twin, bastardized, the knock-off. Yet, she had the necromantic potential. Coronabeth showed no signs of aptitude at that age but her parents were convinced she would bloom eventually. There was talk of separating them if she didn’t; Ianthe would continue her scholarship alone and take her sister’s place as the Crown Princess. Ida needed a necromantic heir. To the girls, who loved each other in that uncomplicated childish way, that idea was terrifying. They had always shared rooms, clothes, friends, a life. They clung to each other endlessly because they were all each other knew; they were each other’s other half and neither girl could imagine a life without her beloved twin.  
  
At age six, when the threats of separation were palpable, they began to lie. It had been Ianthe’s idea, born out of a desperate fear of loneliness and encouraged by her sister. At first it was incredibly difficult and a miracle the girls never were caught. Under a close watch, it ought to have been obvious that Coronabeth was not a necromancer and never would be, but people saw what they wanted to believe in her. She was enchanting, charismatic, and brilliant, why couldn’t she be a necromantic powerhouse as well? They chose animpahilia as a cover, in order to explain the way Corona glowed and was not physically depleted by her studies. Therefore it was assumed that Ianthe, frail and slender, must have been the less able necromancer between the two. Truthfully, it was because of her pursuit of flesh magic. In keeping them together, Ianthe was unknowingly accepting a life of being underappreciated and underestimated. She hated it and sometimes it made her hate her sister, but she could never hate Corona for long because that girl was her heart, her soul, her everything. There was no Ianthe without Coronabeth, there couldn’t be. They would never be apart, they would rule Ida together when the time came.  
  
Over the years, a resentment grew in the both of them, lingering just below the surface. Coronabeth never sweat blood when the two performed together, but the crowd or their parents or their teachers believed that meant that Corona was simply the more able necromancer between them. Sometimes they faked it, Ianthe had learned to draw the blood out of her sister’s pores using her flesh magic, but that was only to avoid suspicion when Ianthe was already bloody-faced and trembling from the exertion. They never saw Corona for the self obsessed fool that she was, only Ianthe did and it was behind closed doors that they argued. For Ianthe it was because she was tired of being classified as the lesser twin, so she threatened a myriad of ways to expose their scheme to the entire house, to parade the truth around zealously. In the same moment those declarations left her lips, she knew in her heart she would never go through with them. Her sister needed her, Corona was nothing without Ianthe, but Ianthe needed Corona, too. She needed Corona like she needed the oxygen she breathed and the food she ate: reluctantly. It was more complicated for Coronabeth, for she ought to be bowing down on her knees and praising her sister for all she did. She detested that Ianthe was better than her and that she owed her sister everything. She hated that her sister held all the power between them and that by lying Corona was depriving Ianthe of her birthright as the necromantic heir. Being indebted was what made her angry and she didn’t know how to process that self hatred so she projected it onto Ianthe. Their arguments did not occur often, but when they did it was rare that they reached an amicable solution, if any at all. Arguments unsolved compounded, building, feeding the conflagration of hatred that burned in each girl’s heart.

  
  
When they were twenty-one and the letter arrived from the emperor, there was no doubt they would be making the pilgrimage to the first house together. They told their parents that it was because they needed each other for emotional support, but truthfully it was because if Corona went alone she would be recognized for what she was at the first test of her power. Over the years, they had always performed together and Ianthe kept that ruse up by refusing to work without her sister at her side. Often she wondered how easy it would be to just tell the truth, to expose her sister for what she was. But she didn’t, she couldn’t. The only other person in the universe who knew was their cavalier, Naberius Tern, and he had been threatened in every way to keep that secret between the three of them. He had a healthy fear of Ianthe but respected Corona, that could have become a problem. Sworn to secrecy, they waved their last goodbyes to their house before departure.

Ianthe knew she would be a lyctor even before the shuttle docked at the Cannan house. On the ride there, as Corona chattered on with Babs wondering aloud about what they might encounter there, Ianthe had decided it. Ascending to lyctorhood was her dream. It wasn’t too long after that when she discovered what it was going to cost. She had realized it first, and of course she had because she was absolutely brilliant. Her idiot sister could never hold a candle to her intelligence and aptitude. The Cannan house drove a wedge between them because Ianthe was relentless in her pursuit of immortality and she wasn’t going to let anyone stand it her way, not even her beloved sister to whom she had devoted her entire life thus far. This would be the final proof she needed that it was _her._ It had always been her, not Corona, she was the superior twin. She deserved to be the Crown Princess, Ida’s necromantic heir. She deserved to stand at the side of Necrolord Prime as his hand, his fingers, his gesture. She reverse engineered every trial, never winning a single key but understanding the depth of their lessons because she had been two necromancers from age six and therefore had more focus and more raw power than any of the other idiotic heirs combined. Not even Sextus or Nonagesimus understood the full picture when they were staring it straight in the goddamned face.

  
  
It had been easy then, once the chaos had started, to kill Naberius Tern. She had done it expertly, clinically, fixing his soul in place with his own rapier. Coronabeth had been there to witness her ascension, Ianthe had wanted her to be there. When Corona had begun to cry and scream and cover her eyes, Ianthe screamed back at her to _fucking look!_ She needed to see exactly what Ianthe was and how little she had always needed Coronabeth. Corona was nothing without Ianthe but Ianthe was everything, she was more powerful than her feeble, stumbling, moronic twin could have ever imagined. She was stronger than anyone in the entire universe could have planned, stronger than her parents could have ever believed. Ianthe wished that they could have watched, too, and understood finally that they had been thoroughly wrong about her. Babs probably didn’t deserve to die and she even felt guilty before he began to fight her. After that, she wished she could bring him back and skewer him again. She had to pick him, though, there was no other option. She hated Corona but she loved Corona and she could never hurt her, even if it meant eternal life.  
  


**  
  


The terribly rusted, run down shuttle stuttered to life as it departed that decrepit planet they had flown to on a whim. It was no shock that Camilla had been right, she was astoundingly intelligent and relentless in the pursuit of seeing her necromancer again. It had been eight months since the Blood of Eden had taken Coronabeth, Judith, and Camilla off of the First and into their ranks, saddling them with a shuttle and enough rations to last the trip they were meant to be taking. The detour was not unexpected, Hect had made her plan known the moment the shuttle door closed. They were to find Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth house and have her identify the remains that Camilla had painstakingly slaved over, gluing slivers of skull together until her eyes were bloodshot. Observing that labor love and dedication sent an unexpected pang of guilt through Coronabeth’s stomach. For not the first time, she wondered what her life could have been if she and Ianthe had never lied. Would she have become her sister’s cavalier primary? Would she have died in the Cannan house, slain with her own weapon by her sister’s pallid hand? Would she have deserved that? Babs surely hadn’t, but he was Babs.  
  
The shuttle shuddered and groaned as it broke the planet’s atmosphere, so ancient that it ought not to fly at all. Corona had to hold tightly to the crate she was sitting on to avoid being flung across the cabin of the metal death trap, knuckles white on the rapier in her hand. She hadn’t realized how good it could feel to hold a sword until the Cannan house, when curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d taken one of the mounted blades off the wall. She had never felt so alive before then, in the training room with Gideon the Ninth, heart racing and breath coming in excited pants. She wanted to laugh, to cry, because perhaps she had been meant for this and Ianthe had been keeping her from her destiny. The sword became her new dream.  
  
The rapier in her hand, black steel with a very plain hilt, had been polished and sharpened daily since she’d taken it. In training with Camilla, she understood that she lacked skill. Camilla said as much, but she also told Coronabeth that she had potential, and that was what drove her to dedicate herself to swordplay. Corona had been short on options when the BoE shuttle touched down, but she still felt a twinge of guilt when examining the blade. Gideon Nav was long dead, but the former Crown Princess of Ida did not consider herself a grave robber. She had seen the other sword beside the body, gorgeously wrought Cohort steel, and decided that Nav would not have minded the loss of the rapier. Gideon would understand, Coronabeth needed it more. She needed to be ready for when she met her sister again.  
  
**  
  
The replacement arm that Ianthe had been given hung limply and bluish at her side, underused and absolutely detested. It was sluggish and weak and did not respond to the commands that Naberius’ obliterated soul gave to it. The lower half of her right arm had been the second worst thing Ianthe had lost that day. Multiple times she had considered severing it, had begged every lyctor on that space station to give her a better one. They refused, it was her problem and she had ten thousand years ahead of her in which to find a solution, if a herald didn’t kill her first. Being an inadequate lyctor on the Mithraeum was something that bonded her and Harrowhark, much to Harrow’s obvious chagrin. They took comfort in each other-- the experiences they had shared at Cannan, the embarrassing but urgent need to be called by their real names-- because the world had become suddenly empty of the two people either girl had ever cared about. Although, Ianthe was dealing with her grief better. Instead of processing the death of her cavalier, suicidal maniac Harrowhak the First lobotomized herself and erased all memory of the person who had died for her. And Ianthe had helped because Harrow had asked, or rather demanded. Having someone in her debt again was a familiar and uncomfortable reminder of the life she had spent starving in her sister’s shadow. Ianthe wasn’t going to try again at having a sister, not with Harrow, that’s not what she wanted from her.  
  
It was late and the habitation lights had already dimmed, leaving Ianthe tired as her circadian rhythm, frustratingly, began to serve it’s functional purpose. Despite the exhaustion lingering deep in her bones, weighing heavy in her head, she couldn’t sleep when her body finally hit the satin sheets of her bed. Before long, Resurrection Beast number seven would be upon the Mithraeum and each and every one of them would be fighting for her lives. It was with stubbornness that she refused to acknowledge her inevitable death- or Harrow’s. She had too much left to do before she could finally pass on into the River. Augustine grew increasingly frustrated with her lack of progress on the daily, though, and his disapproval had begun to weigh upon her shoulders like a ton of bricks. Sometimes, she was surprised he didn’t just kill her himself.  
  
Ianthe hated the Mithraeum, abundant with skulls and swords and the disapproval of her older sibling lyctors. She hated this room that had once belonged to Cyrus the First, who had plastered the walls with memorabilia of his long dead cavalier. She hated it’s decadence despite the fact that it was the same ancient drapery that had decorated her entire life in Ida. In a way, the room suited her completely: it was vain and shallow to the core. In the few months she had spent in this terrible place already, she had discovered that there wasn’t much left in her heart but hate. Perhaps that was because she had left her other half at the Cannan house, crying with bottomless grief beside the body of their cavalier. Without Corona, Ianthe was empty and choletic, overflowing with a grief that she could not begin to understand. She had won, hadn’t she? Once and for all, she had proven herself worthy.  
  
With an enormous sigh, Ianthe gave up trying to keep her pallid amethyst eyes shut. She wasn’t going to sleep tonight, so she rose and blinked blearily around the room. At her bedside were the apple cores, held in a putrid stasis. She had become so numb to the sickly sweet stench of rot that she hardly noticed anymore. Mold had begun to nip at the peel of the one on the left, and the one on the right had shriveled completely. How long had it been since she’d examined them? Hours, days? Months? It felt like just yesterday she had set the spell and by all calculations, it ought to have worked. Her lethargy briefly subsided as her energy was refreshed with rage. She grabbed one of the cores and threw it at the wall. It hit dead center on one of Valancy’s painted breasts, exploding into wet chunks that littered the floor. The spell was impossible but she had to be good enough, she wouldn't have ten thousand years to master decay. Coronabeth didn’t have that long.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to talk to me at [frostryn](https://frostryn.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
